Ah, isn't life sometimes too much like a movie?
Not the way the story goes, not the drama. More like;
One, two, three.
Camera, ready, action.
Or just simply acting. With a smile.
Its a big stage we are running here, and the spotlight seems to love me even in the darkest corner. Yeah, wont you understand, my friend. My life wasn't like this before, but as the number of your age gets higher digits, you are more and more expected to be better. Better just simply in every aspect — acting and dealing and just simply being more mature.
But ah, how can you be mature when your childhood was taken away? You have been mature for too long, baby, and you dont want to be old again now.
Anyways, cry for help isn't usually heard. A little knows how it feels like, — i dont need a bunch, but at least someone understands. Though we may not know each other, i know you are somewhere out there.
S. Grey says its always the darkest before dawn. Cheers to the our darkest, cheers to the future; the beautifully orangey dawn. Its all probably worth it in the end.
Life goes on out there despite your drama. Its a much bigger world we are living.
You'll be okay, we will.
Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
that we also mention this:
Life goes on.
It continues at Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.
There’s a gas station
on a little square in Jericho,
and wet paint
on park benches in Bila Hora.
Letters fly back and forth
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a moving van passes
beneath the eye of the lion at Chaeronea,
and the blooming orchards near Verdun
the approaching atmospheric front.
There is so much Everything
that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.
from the yachts moored at Actium
and couples dance on the sunlit decks.
So much is always going on,
that it must be going on all over.
Where not a stone still stands,
you see the Ice Cream Man
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been
Hiroshima is again,
producing many products
for everyday use.
This terrifying world is not devoid of charms,
of the mornings
that make waking up worthwhile.
The grass is green
on Maciejowice’s fields,
and it is studded with dew,
as is normal grass.
Perhaps all fields are battlefields,
those we remember
and those that are forgotten:
the birch forests and the cedar forests,
the snow and the sand, the iridescent swamps
and the canyons of black defeat,
where now, when the need strikes, you don’t cower
under a bush but squat behind it.
What moral flows from this? Probably none.
Only that blood flows, drying quickly,
and, as always, a few rivers, a few clouds.
On tragic mountain passes
the wind rips hats from unwitting heads
and we can’t help
laughing at that.